


All I Wish (Has Gone Away)

by rabbitxheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitxheart/pseuds/rabbitxheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets hurt and Derek passes time by telling him about his life</p><p>or </p><p>the one where Stiles uses magic to restore the Hale house.</p><p>(whoever finds the batman reference gets a cookie ;P)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Wish (Has Gone Away)

**Author's Note:**

> The idea got stuck in my head after seeing a gorgeous gif set by brokenhalelujah at tumblr (you can find it here http://brokenhalelujah.tumblr.com/post/33387582788/au-in-which-stiles-uses-magic-to-restore-the-hale) and it refused to let go. she's awesome, go give her some love! :)

 

He _wants_ to help. Nobody could ever look Stiles in the eye and tell him he's not trying to pull his own weight, not even Derek, not when Stiles spends most of his (very rare) free time with Deaton, going over protective spells and powders, memorizing the bestiary at roughly the same rate Lydia translates it and occasionally even training with her and Allison to be able to defend himself, if even just a little. Boyd and Erica came back bleeding and sobbing and their wounds took days, if not weeks, to heal. Stiles would know, he helped Deaton care for them. It's enough incentive for the pack to work more and complain less, even if every issue isn't quite resolved yet, they make it work. They all want to pitch in, do their part, and Stiles won't sit back and do nothing just because his bones break easier than theirs do.

”Bring these to the Argent girl, will you?” asks Deaton and hands him a long box and a small punch dagger, pulling him out of his thoughts. They've just finished for the day, learning how to handle the pulvers at first, then slowly but surley progressing further into talismans and amulets.

”Arrows?” Deaton just hums in acknowledgement and goes to feed the cats.

  


He wants to help, but recently he's been excluded from most of the pack meetings for one reason or another and has barely seen any of them since the Christmas break started. Scott's been making excuses and Derek has flat out ignored texting him, so this time he decides to drop by unannounced. The pack are already seated when he gets in, nodding to him almost in unison when he hangs his jacket over the back of Isaac's chair. He has barely handed the box to Alison when Derek slides up next to him. He looks tired and irritated, just another day in wolfland, but something's off. The whole room decidedly looks away and pretents not to notice the two of them. Or the jacket in Derek's outstretched hand. What.

”Stiles,” Derek sighs but never looks away. ”Stiles, you need to go home.”

Stiles stares at him, ignoring the awkward looks from everyone around him and gives up, throwing his hands in the air. He can see Scott's avoiding his eyes and _ouch_ , that has to be one of the most degrading things he has ever been put through. Humiliation and anger settles in his belly like liquid nitrogen and Stiles closes his eyes, nods once and pulls it together enough for his voice to be steady when he speaks.

”I know I'm not part of your little pack and all,” and he can almost feel the resignation written all over his face. ”If you don't want me here, fine. But you don't have to be an dick about it when I'm just trying to help your fuzzy little asses the best way I can.” He grabs his jacket and very decidedly does not look Derek in the eye. Stiles storms out and slams the door behind him, telling himself that a full night's sleep might be good. He's definitely not upset about none of them even speaking up as he dashed out, definitely _not_.

  


When he rounds the corner and comes face to face with two alphas it's simply the last wolfy drop that makes his cup run over. They are twins, one of them leaning against the jeep and the other perched on the hood, sending him looks that would make even Peter uncomfortable. The air of smug disdain around him and the excess of biceps on his brother makes their roles rather easy to guess. Muscles just looks at him, then looks to the jeep and slams his fist down, her steel wrapping around it like it were tin foil. If they were going for intimidation they sure as hell picked the wrong day because all it does is fuel the anger threatening to spill over. McSmarmy looks like he expects Stiles to be afraid when he slides off the hood, sashaying up to him. Too bad for him.

”I didn't know Hale kept pets. Although it kind of sounded like you got thrown out into the yard.”

”Says the man with his own brother in a leash. What did he do, pee on the rug? Chew on your favourite loafers?” Stiles offers him a calm smile because he's _had it_ with these douches, had it with their teeth and their God complexes. There's no need to look at the man by the car, Stiles can tell by the sounds he's making that he's wolfing out. Constantly being around werewolves must have made him either stupid or just very immune to the growling, because all Stiles does when Muscles starts doing just that is smile. He can't help himself when McSmarmy's left eye starts twitching in agitation and lets out a small laugh, sticking his hands into his hoodie, wrapping his fingers around the handle of Allison's punch dagger at the same time as McSmarmy wraps his fingers in Stiles' hoodie, pressing him up against the wall.

”Look, you're not impressing me with the troglodyte snarling. Been there, done that. Even the wall thing is getting a bit outdated.” McSmarmy is looking more and more annoyed and Stiles is enjoying every second of it. ”Hey, I'm just sayin'.”

”You're not really impressing me with the _snark_ , you should probably think of being more hospitable if you want us to spare you. _Just sayin'_.” His eyebrows shoot up at the sound of Stiles snorting at him.

”Hospitablility? _Yeah_. Right.” McSmarmy looks a bit shocked at the venom in his voice, visibly flinching. ”My hospitability ended when I had to spend hours making sure my friends wouldn't die, you _asshole_.” The distance from his pocket to the werewolf's chest isn't very far, and Stiles makes the move before either of them have time to react to it.

It's one thing to throw Molotov cocktails at an alpha to set him on fire from a distance. It's a completely different thing to sink a blade into one and watch the surprise spread on his face from a few inches away. The impact is familiar from months of training, but the surprised noise McSmarmy makes is so far from the growl he expected. He lets his grip of Stiles' hoodie go, sinking to his knees in front of him, eyes wide and veins in his neck taking on a familiar sickening black. There is a roar from the other and Stiles is airborn in a matter of seconds, side burning from where Muscles grabbed him, and there's a sickening crunch when he lands facing away from the alphas. There is the sudden crash of the door flying off of its hinges, a small army of werewolves pushing through it and Stiles doesn't have to turn around to understand that his side is the winning one. There are shouts and yelps, but none of them belong to his wolves and it makes him calmer, even if he's still angry with them.

”God _damnit_ Stiles,” Derek swears, appearing right by his ear, and Stiles feels himself be lifted from the ground, feels the scent of Derek and leather when he allows his head to lul against the shoulder carrying him. He should be furious, but he's getting cold for some reason and Derek is a little werewolf oven all by himself.

”Jus' wanted to help,” he murmurs and leans closer to the warmth, feeling Derek's arms pull him in tighter as he breaks into a run towards the Camaro. Stiles wishes he could still be angry at him, but it drains from him at the same pace his energy does.

”Good, keep talking, keep talking to me,” he urges, but Stiles is tired and the pain is finally feeling a bit distant, so he closes his eyes and buries his face in Derek's neck and falls asleep.

  


  


The next thing he's aware of is the scent of hospital and hushed voices. He is covered in warmth, from his neck all the way down, just toasty enough, and makes it a little better long enough for him to hear Melissa humming some nursery rhyme she always used to sing for Scott when he was still able to be sick. Sometimes she checks the needle in his arm and other times she speaks to him, soft words he can barely hear but the tone of her voice soothes him, even with all the noises a hospital contains.

He sleeps a lot, drifting in and out of it, not really sure where his dreams end and reality picks up. Even when he's awake, he's barely there, not nearly enough energy to move and talk, but when he's well enough to discern words, he listens. His dad is there and he's pretty sure he hears Scott, but what surprises him the most is how often it's the sound of Derek's voice that brings him out of the medicinal fog he's in, low and calm. At first Stiles thinks time might seems to pass much slowler than it really does because of the painkillers, because Derek is _still_ talking and Stiles has never heard him utter more than a few sentences at a time, but the hum of his voice there when he falls asleep and still there when he surfaces again. Stiles doubts that Derek even knows if he'll remember it at all, still used to speaking to a non-responsive Peter. But Derek talks, Stiles listens and finds out more and more about him, little hints of the Derek that had yet to be marred by loss upon loss. He talks about baseball, his neighbours in New York, his weird obsession with frogs when he was a kid and even makes a joke or two, even if it's several days before Stiles has the energy to smile at them, eyes still shut and body sluggish from recovering and the cocktail in his veins. He's so tired he's not even embarassed when the catheter is removed and he has to get help to use the bathroom. Derek doesn't offer, thankfully, but still hoovers and sticks around when there are unknown people in the room. Once he's stable enough, they discharge him and let him go home, where his room is blissfully silent and the lights turned off.

  


Melissa comes by to lower the dosage of his painkillers and suddenly the world isn't so fuzzy anymore. But with the increase of energy comes the awareness of his wounds, and also the awareness of Derek's constant presence in his room when his dad isn't around. Sometimes when he is, as well. Stiles doesn't speak yet, not really feeling up to it, but also because he's worried Derek would stop if he himself starts, so Stiles focuses on resting and letting the drugs he's on do their job. He wakes up the one night by his side hurting, doing his best not to whimper and wake Derek who's asleep in the chair beside the bed, but failing. Derek helps him roll to his uninjured side to take pressure of his ribs and bruises, then bunches the covers up against Stiles and climbs in, facing him.

”Lie still,” Derek whispers and a soft palm comes up to rest at his waist, right under his shirt, careful not to touch where it hurts the most. The warmth of his had against Stiles' skin is comforting even before the pain starts giving way for heat, like drinking hot chocolate before it's cool enough, feeling it move through his flank and towards Derek's fingertips. It leaves Stiles sleepy, not the druggy haze he was before but the kind that makes him want to spend all day in bed, never quite waking up. Derek pulls his arm back, but Stiles never feels him move from the bed.

”Wha-”

”Shh. Sleep.” Slowly slipping back into oblivion, he reaches out and hooks a finger into the cuff of Derek's henley, the heat from his skin seeping through the fabric where their arms align.

  


  


He hasn't left when Stiles surfaces again. Derek must have done the hand thing once or twice while Stiles slept because the sharp pain is little more than an ache, the soreness of a bruise. The difference in his energy is incredible, yet all he manages is to open his eyes to glance at the person next to him. Derek is facing Stiles on the bed, awake, but eyes shut, head bowed down and quiet. So very, very quiet. Not like Derek usually is, all wolf and testosterone and silent brooding, but he sighs as if he prepares to say something, then regrets it and stays silent, eyebrows drawn together in thought. Stiles has never ever seen him look so tired, like he hasn't slept for weeks When he starts talking, his voice cracks already at the beginning.

”She, um... she was a substitute teacher. For my class. And everyone were making bad Van Halen jokes, but she approached me. Little notes on my tests, talked about baseball and books I liked, things like that. Back then I couldn't tell the difference between her pulse raising because she liked me or the realization that she could get to my family through their stupid fifteen year-old. Told me we had to sneak around so the school wouldn't catch us. ” Derek has to hear the spike in Stiles' heartrate, the hum of rage in his veins as he imagines getting his hands on Kate Argent, because Derek looks up at him.

”There's nothing either one of us can do about it. I just wish there was something, you know? Pictures, clothes, anything, but she took it all away. I can't believe it's been seven years already.” Derek looks away and sniffles, fucking _sniffles_ , and Stiles forgets to give a shit about alpha/human etiquette and hooks his finger into Derek's henley again, wanting to somehow voice that he's listening, that someone else knows. That he doesn't think Derek is to blame, God knows Derek probably takes care of that part much too well by himself.

They sink into a silence that should be uncomfortable, he just knows it, but instead feels almost familiar. Maybe that's what the constant possibility of death does to people. Kick things out of balance. Or maybe into perspective? Stiles closes his eyes again and wills his thoughts away, clawing his way back into his not-quite-sleeping state.

”I can't remember what they looked like anymore.” It's whispered so quietly that Stiles barely hears it, but he does, and it almost feels worse than realizing what Kate did because this, this he knows firsthand. The shock of realizing you're forgetting someone you thought you'd never be without in the first place. He can barely recall his mother's voice anymore, but they have pictures and videos and letters, and Derek has _nothing_ but a charred house and a batshit insane uncle. Stiles blindly slips his hand a bit further up until he feels Derek's knuckles and entwines their pinkies, feeling Derek squeeze his a little. He's painfully aware that this isn't something they would normally do, but Derek hasn't killed him yet so Stiles guesses it's a good sign. Normal doesn't really apply anymore anyway, not since Scott got bitten.

 

 

A small, soft hand is stroking his hair when he wakes up the next day. Erica looks tired and a bit worn, but she looks at him warmly when he croaks at her, throat dry and unused. He does his best to look less like he's been in bed for days, but it's kind of a lost cause.

”Hi Batman,” she says and helps him sit up, pillowed up by more pillows than he knew he owned. ”How are you feeling?” She breaks out a box of juice, holds out for him to drink and fuck dignity, it's even his favourite brand. He takes his pain meds while he's at it, drinking like he's been thirsty for years and it's meerly seconds before it's empty.

”You know me, I'll be running circles around you guys in a week,” Stiles finally gets out. Glancing around for traces of Derek, the only odd thing he finds in the room is a pile of gifts and cards on the table.

”He left when I got here, had something to take care of.”

”Right,” Stiles sighs and remembers the events leading up to his injuries in the first place and with it the humiliation of having been thrown out by the people he thought were his friends.

”Hey, you do know why we kept you out, right?” She's frowning as if she expects him to magically know what the pack are thinking.

”Puny human, werehulk smash?” He tries for funny but ends up sounding miserable. Stiles knows he's human, but so is Allison and Lydia and somehow that just makes it worse. It's not that he's the unfortunately fragile human- he's just a liability in comparison to the rest of them, regardless of his research skills. Oracle, not Batman.

”Derek didn't want the alpha pack to be able to smell other werewolves on you, not until you were fully trained and could defend yourself.”

”Bullshit. If that was true then why has he been here the whole time? Why are _you_ here?”

”To make sure you're okay and to help you heal.”

”Oh my God, I had a concussion and some bruises, I've had worse,” he says and stares longingly at the boxes of chocolates sitting on the table. Erica shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath, scratching the back of her neck. Again with being the useless human.

”What? I'm not made of glass, Jesus!”

”Do you remember anything at all?” He thinks for a while, snapshots of growling and twin alphas and pain, then the feeling of _safe_ that came with Derek lifting him up.

”The twins and hitting the ground.” He leaves out the part about sniffing Derek because... yeah.

”You killed one of them and the second threw you around like you were a _ragdoll_ , we got out just in time to watch you land.” She winces at the memory, her voice lowers to almost a whisper. ”I've never seen Derek like that. With all the problems we've had with other wolves and kanimas and shit, I've never seen _that_. The alpha was dead in seconds, but he managed to cut you as well, there was blood everywhere. ” Scoffing, Stiles runs his hand along his side where-

Where there are four long, pink, scars where the alpha must have grabbed him as he threw Stiles.

”What,” is all he can think of. ”But how...?”

”I told you, he's been healing you. You almost bled out before Derek got you help. ”

”Oh.” The rest of what she has told him sinks in slowly as he considers the cold and the wall of warmth that is Derek, mind still a bit too sluggish to keep up with its usual tempo.

”Wait a second... I actually killed McSmarmy?” He must look incredibly shocked because Erica snorts, the worry in her features nearly gone.

”There must have been some wolvesbane left on the knife, but practice is paying off. You struck him right in the heart.” She tightens her hold on his hand. ”We took care of the others while Derek drove you to the hospital.”

”Jesus.”

”Yeah.”

  


They sit in silence for a while until Stiles gives in and asks her to hand him the gifts left for him. Most of it is chocolate, or in Allison's case cupcakes, but there is one big plastic bag under everything, much bigger than anything else in the pile.

”What is it, a blanket?” Stiles digs into the bag of soft fabric and pulls out a onesie, grey and fluffy. ”Really? A wolf?” Erica laughs, bubbly and happier than he's seen her in months. ”Oh my God Erica, it even has a tail and ears, I'll look like I came straight out of Where the Wild Things Are.”

”To be honest, you kind of did.” He hands her the onesie and she puts it over the back of the chair.

”So all these threats about eating me have been because you guys love me?”

”Stop pushing it,” says Erica, but there is a fondness in her voice when she does that wasn't this obvious to him before.

  


  


Derek doesn't come back. The rest of the pack do, even when he's capable of taking care of himself albeit a bit slowly, but it's nice to have them around. They are his friends after all and, from what Erica told him, they all thought they would lose him for a little while, so he lets them in every time. Scott is the last one to show, obviously feeling guilty about making Stiles feel unwanted, but he brings pizza and they hug it out, which turns out to be all that is needed now that Stiles knows why.

  


When he's finally well enough for his dad to let him out of the door, Stiles carefully makes his way into his beloved jeep that Boyd somehow has managed to fix, if only temporary, and drives to Deaton's. Scott is trying to wash one of the mutts brought in, trying being the key word, and Stiles tries to keep his laugher at bay to avoid disturbing his barely healed ribs.

”Stiles,” Deaton glances up from where he's crouched over the table, writing tiny labels with tiny handwriting. ”You seem better than I expected,” the vet notes without even glancing up at him.

”Thanks. Wow, were did all this come from?” The table is littered with bottles and boxes in varying sizes, some content he recognizes and some nowhere near familiar. He rests his finger on the one he recognizes the most.

”That’s the same one you used to trap Jackson,” Says Deaton before he even has to ask.

Stiles picks up the next one to the right, reading out loud.

”Deadly nightshade. Atropine, right?”

”Yes, very poisonous.” He picks up a jar containing a tiny vial, wrapped up in bubble plastic.

”What's in this?”

”Highly toxic, thus the packaging. It was found in an Egyptian artefact by a Seattle professor and his student.” Stiles snorts and puts the jar down.

”Yeah. And then he poisoned her, left her for dead and she turned green, immune to all toxins and-” Deaton carefully takes the jar and labels it _Toxicodendron Radicans, Egyptian_ while smirking to himself. ”No shit,” Stiles says and gapes at him. ”Do not think for a second that I will let this go permanently, I will get the truth out of you eventually, nobody is that immune to the Stilinski Babble.” There's a disbelieving snort from the other room but Stiles ignores Scott and walks over to the cabinet where the labeled ones have been placed neatly in a row. Stiles moves his fingers along the shelf, studying each of the jars and reading their labels, before he comes to one that is set behind the others. “What does this one do?”

“That’s the most rare powder I’ve managed to get hold of so far. It can restore anything to the way it was meant to be.” Stiles catches himself with fingering the chewed cuff of his hoodie, then remembers a sniffle and warm pinky hooked in his. He looks over to where Deaton is scribbling labels still.

“...can I?” Looking at him for the first time since his arrival, Deaton holds his gaze for a very long moment, then his eyes drift to the injured side of Stiles' chest, the one that shouldn't have healed that quickly, and understanding is written all over his face.

Behind him, Scott asks, “What would you need that for?”

But Deaton nods and says, “Be careful what you use it for,” and Stiles slips it into his pocket.

”Come on, let's get some pizza before I drop you off at Allison's,” he says to Scott and mouths a 'thank you' to Deaton, who just smiles back.

  


  


Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon looking through the internet and all the books Deaton has lent him, making sure he knows how to use the stuff in the first place, taking a quick nap and then hops in the shower. He swears to himself when he opens his closet and remembers that all his clothes are unwashed or ruined.

”Ah, what the hell,” he figures and grabs the onesie thrown over the back of his computer chair, carefully climbs into it and buttons it up. Not only is it comfortable considering the soreness of his body, but the fabric warm and soft, the arms and legs of it just a little too long, long enough for him to grow an inch or two more. Whoever bought it for him put some thought into it. Stiles bunches the sleeve up and brings it to his face, taking a small sniff. It smells familiar, mostly like home, but there's a hint of something woody in there as well. The front door slams and Stiles tears his gaze away from the mirror, then goes downstairs to meet his dad.

”Hey.”

”Hi kiddo,” he smiles and shrugs his jacket off. ”Nice clothes, planning on staying in tonight?”

Stiles shakes his head and toes his shoes on.”Actually, I'm going out for a bit, but I left some pizza for you in the fridge.”

”Going to Derek's?” Stiles stops dead in his tracks, desperately trying to come up with a lie to cover everything and-

Of course. _Of course_ Derek told his dad, how else could he have spent days in Stiles' hospital room, why else wouldn't his dad have asked him about the reason behind his injuries? How dense has he been to have missed something so obvious? He spins around, finding his father smiling softly, a smile he hasn't seen in nearly a year and Stiles feels like crying for _at least_ just as long.

”Dad, I-”

”He told me about all the things you've done this past year. The Whittemore kid even came by to apologize for the restraining order,” he chuckles. ”Look. I can't be angry. I could never be angry with you for trying to protect those you care about.” The sheriff brushes a hand over his head, careful of the bumps still present. ”It's one of the many things that make me proud to be your father. Now go, tell him I said hi.” Stiles nods and only manages to avoid crying by avoiding the sheriff's gaze as he heads out the door.

  


  


He heads for the Hale house without even a seconds thought. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that Derek's near breakdown nearly a week earlier had been because of the approaching anniversary of the fire. In less than 24 hours it will be seven years since Derek saw his family last, and the chances of him being anywhere else in Beacon Hills is next to non-existant. The Camaro parked in the clearing confirms it. He parks by it and puts the jar of mossy green powder into the pocket of his onesie, then climbs out of the jeep.

”Stiles.” He must've heard him several minutes ago, because he's already out on the porch, leaning against the door. Derek looks as worn out as he did in Stiles' bed, like he hasn't slept in days. Maybe he hasn't.

”Come here.” Stiles says, voice low and steady. Derek only blinks, studying him, as if trying to figure out why Stiles comes barging into his life dressed in a wolf onesie at 11 pm, demanding he get down from his porch. He half expects Derek to argue, but after a while he walks down the steps of the burnt out shell of a mausoleum he has been living in and towards him. ”Is there anybody inside?” asks Stiles when Derek stops just inches from him and lays a careful hand on his shoulder, actually stroking the fluffy fabric of the onesie. Stiles nearly loses focus for a second, his heart speeding up so quickly Derek has to hear it, but decides to file away the warm feeling in his chest for now.

”No. Why, what's wrong?”

”Do you trust me?” And for the first time since they got to know each other, it's not a demand or a statement, but a question. He's not forcing it, nor expecting Derek _not_ to, like every other time. Wants him to, but doesn't steer him either way.

”You're pack,” Derek answers after a while, slightly hesitant, hand warm against Stiles' shoulder. It's barely even feels like a sudden revelation when he gets it, that it was Derek who bought it for him, made him _theirs_ without making him a shapeshifter. Made him a little bit wolf, just like the rest of their pack. But pack doesn't mean unwavering trust, not yet, despite all the revelations the past weeks.

” _Derek_.” Stiles can feel the uncertainty rolling off of him in waves, but Derek nods and lets his hand glide down Stiles' arm until he reaches the cuff of the sleeve and slips his finger in, lingering against the back of Stiles' hand.

”More than anybody else.” Derek looks honest to God scared out of his mind, letting his guard down like that. Stiles rewards him with a small smile and squeezes his hand gently before letting go, thumb gliding over his knuckles.

”Stay back.” Derek nods again, for once not questioning everything with his eyebrows or general facial musculature, but moves to sit on the hood of the jeep.

  


What he thinks about every time he uses magic varies. The first time it was a tiny sliver of pure belief, but he has found it easier to focus on the why rather than the how. Protective spells on their house happen with his mother in mind, the way she said she'd always watch over them, the amulets the entire pack carry around their necks with each of their smiles in thought. The powder is coarse and rough in his palm, almost like sand.

Stiles closes his eyes and thinks of Derek burying half of his sister, of the panic in his voice when he thought he was losing Stiles as well. The sobs wracking a much, much younger Derek's body when Stiles had seen him get pulled out of class and told nearly his entire family were dead. Of childhood stories, the porch Derek built with his father and his older brother who always would get hiccups when he laughed too hard. His collection of frog toys that had been stashed by his mother in the attic. The picture of his mother in dr Fenris' files.

When he stops walking, the circle will be complete, despite the tiny amount of powder in his hand. Stiles knows it's enough.

When he opens his eyes, the skeleton of a house will no longer be just charcoal but a _home_. Stiles knows, because Derek deserves it. There will be water and electricity and everything will work because Stiles will make it so.

When they open the door, they will find the belongings of Derek and his family. Stiles knows this, because even if they aren't still here, Derek is. Derek needs this. And Stiles is the only one who can give it to him.

 

The last grains of powder fall from his hand onto the lawn. He has gotten from one end of the house to the other, passing the porch and just around the corner. Stiles glances down, hoping to see a solid line of powder running around the next corner to connect with the beginning, making a full circle.

The line ends right by his foot.

”What.” Stiles backs, walking backwards back to the jeep, waiting for the line to magically appear like it has all other times, but nothing happens. Absolutely nothing happens, _nothing_. In fact, the whole forest is so silent he most likely could have heard a mosquito fart if it wasn't for the protective circle that keeps even them yards away from the house. Stiles sighs, turns and sits down on the hood next to Derek, doing his best to avoid what he assumes is a confused and wolfy stare, twiddling with the tail of his onesie. It takes him a few minutes to even dare to do as much as breathe loudly.

”Well,” he mumbles, staring down at the remnants of dust on his hands. ”That was useless.” Derek is silent, as usual, as Stiles brushes his hand clean on his knee and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. Deaton must have been tricked or Stiles simply is as useless as he himself suspected.

”Look, dude, I-” He glances at Derek, and Derek...

  


Derek's face is completely blank. Not the blank mask he keeps on at all times but open and unreadable, staring ahead. Stiles looks up at the house, dim green walls no longer charred and broken but stable and seemingly untouched by fire, just like the white columns of the porch and the red wooden details that hadn't even been there when Stiles last looked. The roof is no longer caved in, every window whole. Stiles can see curtains in them, adorned with an odd lamp or two. There's even a porch swing, one Stiles thinks he may has seen strewn in pieces on the lawn. Because there is a lawn now, not just grass, but he can tell grass from path to the porch, and _wow_. There is a clear edge where he has strewn the powder, separating mossy ground from _lawn_ and there's even a cherry tree not far from the porch. He says nothing as Derek slides down from the hood, walking as if he's wading through molasses, and walks up the porch stairs, stopping at the door, wrapping his hand around the handle. After a few moments of hesitation, Stiles hears the click of the handle being pushed down and the slight creak of the door when Derek walks in, leaving the door open behind him. It may be a heat-of-the-moment thing or an invite, but Stiles waits, not wanting to ruin this, still not quite sure how it happened.

Then Derek howls, howls in a way that sends Stiles running towards the door and into the livingroom, not even registering the wallpaper or the glass doors but heading straight for Derek where he's seated on the chaise lounge of the huge sofa, picture frame in hand and the claws of his other hand deep in his thigh, staring down at the floor.

”Derek, Derek, hey, no.” Stiles says as soft as he can, wrapping his fingers around Derek's, feeling the iron grip let up until the claws retreat and the wounds pull themselves together. Stiles barely has time to stand up straight before Derek buries his face in his stomach, wrapping his arms around him. He doesn't need to be a werewolf to see how Derek is shaking, his whole body vibrating with tension until he lets out the first choked sob, and after that it all just happens naturally. Stiles strokes his hair and lets him cry, stands with his arms resting around Derek's shoulders until he has nearly cried himself to exhaustion.

”Come on,” he climbs into the sofa and leans back. Derek lies down sprawled half on top of him, still breathing heavily into Stiles' chest, muttering little broken 'thank you's until he falls dead asleep. Stiles buries his nose in Derek's hair, simply because it's right there. Before he falls asleep he sends two texts, one to his dad to let him know he's not coming home and one to Erica, telling them not to come over until he gives them thumbs up.

  


When he wakes up, Derek is still right next to him, but sitting up with a photo album in his hands. His eyes are still puffy and his hair is everywhere, but he looks... not happy, but less haunted. It's as if Derek has absolutely touch starved, which might actually be the case, because once he's hugged Stiles, he doesn't seem to want to stop casually touching him. Not that Stiles has any objections, but it makes his heart ache to think of how long Derek has been this lonely. They silently rearrange themselves so Derek sits between Stiles' drawn up legs, back leaning against his chest and the album in his hands, then flips it open with care. The first page contains one picture only, a teenaged couple dressed up for prom.

”They met when they were fifteen,” Derek says, and proceeds tells Stiles the story behind every photo in the book depicting their lives together, including the one with wolfed out baby Derek and the annihilated frog plushie. When they are done, Stiles follows Derek throughout the house, hugs him in every room and sits with him in the porch swing for hours, listening to him talk about his little sisters and nieces. Somewhere in all of this, Derek has gone from being near tears to near smiling, so Stiles figures it's okay to ask if Derek wants the pack to turn up as they make their way into the kitchen.

”Okay,” says Derek. ”Tell Erica to buy us something to eat.”

  


_**To Erica** _

_Safe to come over. Anniversary of the fire so keep the pack in line. Bring food._

  


_**From Erica** _

_Got it. Pizza?_

  


He shows Derek, who mumbles, ”Pizza's fine”, then goes back to looking through the box of books on the kitchen table. Stiles nods and presses send, feet dangling where he's sitting on the counter top, chewing on a candy bar he found in the truck. Derek is wearing his brother's hoodie and his father's sweatpants, going through boxes of books from the attic, looking to see if they contain anything useful.

”Stiles?”

”Yeah?”

”You know I want you around, right?” He looks up from the box at the same time as Stiles looks up from the Hale bestiary.

”Yeah. I do.” And he does. He's starting to get it now, starting to see the small signs he's missed before, and it makes him grin like an idiot.

”Good.” Derek smiles back at him, not the fake, sarcastic ones he's used to, but a genuine smile. He goes back to sorting books and Stiles watches him for a while until he hears Scott's hysterical shouting and Erica's laughter out on the lawn.

  


If any of them catch Stiles holding Derek's hand under the table as they eat, they don't say anything about it.

  


 


End file.
